


blue

by eichart



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, M/M, strictly platonic hand-holding, that sweet sweet spot between friendship and romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichart/pseuds/eichart
Summary: In this life Victor’s chosen the ice and a dream over anything and everyone, and he’s content with that. There are bodies to deke, goals to score, and games to win; there’s no room for anything else.—This is the story about the path to the NHL, and maybe falling in love along the way.





	blue

**Author's Note:**

> A huge shoutout to my followers on my fic blog who have had to deal with my complaining, liveblogging my writing process, and far too many sneak peeks. Here it is guys! I hope it’s everything I made it out to be.

_I fell in love with you the same way you fall asleep:  
_ _slowly and then all at once._

* * *

Blue skies watch the beginning of it unfold: clear, sunny, and just the perfect temperature — a good omen for anyone who believes in them.

Victor Olofsson does not, but this is not a story about that.

It begins with Linus Ullmark’s too small table and an enthusiastic invitation to dinner: this sliver of home in a country four thousand miles away from Sweden. They’re just a mass of still-growing Swedes eating tacos because Dahlin had pick and of course Ras wanted tacos, but even the nontraditional food brings a hint of comforting warmth. It’s all of this mixed together: the familiar lilt of Swedish, telling one too many embarrassing stories from Frölunda, and Linus’ baby babbling in his highchair. It’s chirping Alex Nylander for taking the facetime call from his brother in the middle of dinner and Lawrence Pilut’s laugh from across the table.

Victor’s never shied away from new beginnings, the tough choices and the harder path. He cried for what felt like days after Modo and it stung for months long after his choice to go to Frölunda. Even now, losing that series still haunts him.

No, that isn’t right. 

That loss: it’s shaped him. 

If he’s learned anything over the years, it’s the tough times that shape you and the tough choices that get you places. They’re the wins and the European Trophy against his lips, the friendships and brotherhoods that feel like they’ll last forever. Growing isn’t easy and nostalgia isn’t kind, but the hardest steps —they’re the ones that will lead you where you want to go.

And this beginning, with lettuce and laughter strewn across the table and a motley crew of Swedes all looking at the same dream just within fingertip reach, this feels like something — a throbbing potential just skin deep waiting to grow into greatness. 

Victor is no stranger to greatness.

After all, he’s spent countless hours happily fielding questions from Buffalo Media about Ras from the moment he signed his entry level contract. He’s walked in its edges, stared into its light, and maybe a few times, truly been bathed in it.

There are times when things just feel so right; he can’t imagine having made a different choice, being on a different path. Not everyone believes in destiny, Victor isn’t so sure even he does, but the world is a complicated web, every string precisely in place to lead you where you are now. 

He locks eyes with Lawrence across the table, not for the first time. There have been plenty of times before, usually separated by the plastic of a visor and the colors they wore. This time though, there’s a shared smile, a shared dream written clearly over open faces.

And this more than anything, like the metal pen he used to sign his entry level contract, feels like it’s the easiest thing.

—

Or maybe it starts before that; before tacos at Linus’ apartment, before the hardest choices and toughest losses, before team issued gear with the Sabres logo trying so desperately to mean something more.

He’s sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

The defensemen the coaching staff point out seem to ebb and flow, and Victor takes it all in. He hones his shot to a deadly weapon — the best in the league, some say; the best in the world someday, some whisper. He battles with players along the boards, plenty of them Swedish and blond haired and blue eyed. He loses because he’s too small and comes back the next season stronger. 

On his twenty-first birthday he wishes he was better. 

Six weeks later, Rasmus Dahlin pokes the puck between his legs at the blue line like it’s child’s play ( and then does it again because nothing Rasmus Dahlin ever does is a fluke ).

Lawrence Pilut is not a name unknown to him. Sweden isn’t the largest; paths easily cross and uncross, especially in hockey. Victor’s been facing off against him since they were both skinny, undersized 16 year old teenagers with a longshot at the NHL. But that’s still all it is: a name on another body to get around on the way to the net.

Until it’s 2017 and Lawrence Pilut is everywhere on the ice and everywhere in the hockey news, it seems. He wins SHL defenseman of the year to Victor’s league leading twenty-seven goals.

There’s this too though: Lawrence Pilut checks him into the boards and Victor gets a glimpse at the bluest eyes he’s ever seen; blonde hair imperfect as he messes with his helmet on the opposite bench, head thrown back in laughter he cannot hear across the ice; snapshots of distraction that pull him from his razor focus if only just. And for a moment it’s easy to wonder about different times and different lives, but he’s always quick to put his head back down, to think only in numbers on jerseys and the crisp cut of blades on ice. He’s had years to turn players into nothing more than a number.

In this life Victor’s chosen the ice and a dream over anything and everyone, and he’s content with that. There are bodies to deke, goals to score, and games to win; there’s no room for anything else.

That season, Victor dangles Lawrence and scores a highlight reel worthy goal.

—

Sabres Development Camp is nothing new. This is his fifth one, after all; he knows how the story goes.

( But it’s different this time too — black in on a contract he’s been waiting patiently to sign for five years. It’s always scarier when you have something to prove ).

Victor steps into Keybank for the first time in almost a year and he can tell in more ways than one that this time it’s going to be different. There’s this buzz in the air, in the floors, and in the bright eyes of the prospects. It’s in the edge of the coaches’ voices, firm but fair, stitched into practice jerseys and sunk marrow deep. The words have always been said, but this year it finally feels like there might just be something more under the lecture by the coaches, in the confident line of shoulders trimmed in blue and gold.

There’s still a familiarity underlying it all. There are the guys who have been here throughout the years, all of them working for the same dream that only a few of them will ever reach --- the culmination of skates on ice, burning muscles, and a bead of sweat for every sacrifice dripping down the hollow of a back. 

Seven are newly drafted, a few more invited from colleges, ( a few more hometown boys whose dreams will never go beyond development camp ), and at the center of this whirlwind stands Ras — Ras who pretends to not hear everything around him with the poise of a man beyond his years; a pillar of quiet strength and confidence.

Victor’s gotten to know him over the past couple years in Frölunda, though — has seen past skin deep and knows even the most confident hate being alone. Buffalo’s new savior is no different. To him sometimes, Ras is still that quiet sixteen year old easily overlooked until he pokes the puck between your feet before you even notice; the boy in the dressing room who doesn’t seem to realize the light he creates. Victor feels the need to protect that, even if he doesn’t have the right. 

He isn’t surprised when Ras hugs him the moment he sees him, no separation between them, only four inches and five years. “ _Thank god_ ,” whispers Ras against Victor’s neck. And he gets it, if only because he’s been here so long.

He’s seen so many come through — the ones they’ve already made out to be stars, the ones who are going to save this team, though he thinks ‘save’ is too heavy a word to shackle anyone with: Sam Reinhart taken seven rounds before him, Jack Eichel the so-called consolation prize, Alex Nylander the controversial pick, Casey Mittelstadt with something to prove, and now Ras, the first overall, the franchise defenseman.

But Ras is different than them all, really; they have a history he never had with the others. 

Victor smooths his hand down Ras’ back in a calming motion and feels fingers dig into his back as Ras’ grip tightens. “They already love you,” he says in response and Ras just breathes out.

Across the room, Lawrence Pilut laughs at a joke Brendan Guhle cracks.

—

Victor knows Lawrence too —and maybe that’s assumed here since they’re both Swedish— but he only really knows him in the way rivals know each other’s greatest weaknesses; ever critical, ever circling, ever looking for the chink in the armor.

The rumors of Lawrence Pilut to sign in Buffalo had surfaced only days after Victor inked his own contract. Ras found it the most amusing on earth much to Victor’s displeasure —he definitely deserves better then to be chirped by someone five years his junior.

In the present, Victor returns the favor as Ras rooms with Brendan Guhle in the Marriott and sits next to his stall in the locker room. Victor smirks knowingly at Ras when he misses the net after Brendan scores backhand between his legs.

“Always falling in love so easy,” chirps Victor, voice quiet.

Ras sends him a dirty look and a none too gentle cross-check that sends him sliding into Lawrence. Victor laughs, not unkindly.

—

Lawrence plays like he wants to do everything and he gets what he wants. He lives like that too.

Victor envies that sometimes — all the things he’s not. He is all calculated shots and tightly wound words carefully chosen until something pries loose these walls he’s built ( and doesn’t ever remember constructing ). 

_Hold your heart close and your fears closer._

He never got an opportunity to be teammates with Lawrence ( not quite like this; knowing this could be something longer than a tournament and a few weeks ) and he finds himself settling into it, enjoying seeing the side off the ice: the laughter, the jokes, the life.

Lawrence has bright blue eyes that sparkle, brighter than the blue of the sky on the clearest days, the kind that make you wish you could fly to immerse yourself in it.

His laugh is easy and he catches Victor in the glint of his eyes. It feels like the easiest thing to join in, to fall into this, and Victor wonders why he never had all those brief times they’d collided on the national team. Maybe there’s something to be said for a promise of a future.

Lawrence flits around the ice, the locker room, the apartment complex a large chunk of the players live in, like one of those woodland sprites his grandmother warned him against.

_Don’t tell them your name, Olie, or they’ll steal your heart._

—

_“Victor Olofsson.”_

_“With the impressive shot.”_

They hadn’t needed introductions then: the goal scoring leader with the highly touted shot and the SHL defenseman of the year. Just another two players crossing and uncrossing paths since their voices dropped and expectations rose.

They’d done them anyway.

Lawrence smiled, sharp but genuine.

They talked a little, rivals of years thawing out a little too easily over fika and playful shoving matches on the ice. 

And maybe that is the beginning.

“I’ll see you in Buffalo,” said Lawrence.

“Yeah,” Victor said, something like warmth blooming in his chest as they hugged: excitement, anticipation, something else. “See you.”

—

It doesn’t feel as bittersweet to Victor when he tugs on an Amerks hoodie, not like it had switching from Modo’s fiery red to Frölunda’s earthy tones. The sweatshirt messes up his hair and he makes eye contact with Lawrence from across the the room and this—

—this feels like it could be something great. 

It’s loud in the dressing room after practice: Brendan’s easy laugh, Ports’ careful words, and Alex and Justin’s bickering rising above them all. 

Lawrence falls into the empty stall next to Victor, swipes the white Amerks hat from a hook when he’s not looking and puts it on. When he turns, the brim is dipping down to block his eyes as the band sits a bit too loose around his head. Victor reaches out without thinking, flipping the hat around as Lawrence laughs.

“Don’t want to cover those pretty eyes,” says Victor without thinking. It’s meant to be a joke but he hears the words echoing in his ears even as he’s saying them and he thinks the inflection is all wrong.

Lawrence freezes mid-laugh, just long enough for Victor to notice before his own hat is being pulled down over his face. “Better cover yours then,” chirps Lawrence.

“Asshole.”

That leads to their own shoving match that starts in Victor’s stall and ends on the floor, Lawrence’s knee against Victor’s chest, who in turn half-heartedly tries to upend him again.

“When you two are done, do you want to get lunch?” interrupts a dry voice above them, and Victor looks past the wild tendrils of hair falling into Lawrence’s eyes to see Asplund staring down at them with thinly veiled amusement. 

Lawrence offers him a hand and Victor takes it and lets him haul him up even if he doesn’t need it.

Lawrence never does give the hat back.

—

Practice falls into an increasingly comfortable routine, a mix of familiar and unfamiliar drills slotted with laughter and banter. The hockey is not quite the same, but he doesn’t think it’s as different as people say it is. It’s a little faster, the players a little stronger and more skilled — above all, it’s a challenge and Victor has always met those head on instead of shrinking away.

It helps maybe that there are these constant pockets of familiarity, echoes of home carved into North American ice and soaked into worn pavement.

Victor dangles Lawrence in practice, leaves him spinning in his wake and rips a shot off neatly into the top corner of the net. It’s a poor echo of the goal he scored when they belonged to different teams, but it’s an echo all the same. “Seem familiar?” he chirps as they both glide alongside the boards while the drill resets.

Lawrence laughs, smile wide as ever even as he bumps Victor into the boards, “Never letting it go, no?”

For a moment they’re too close, Lawrence still pressed into his space with a gloved hand on his chest and Victor feels and tries not to want to chase.

“Never,” he says, even as his heart clatters unsteadily against his ribs.

_Never letting you go._

—

Lawrence gets knocked out for a couple of games. Victor can see how much it eats at him and takes it upon himself to make him forget with a few rounds of Fortnite and unfamiliar beer.

“One more?” He asks, as the menu pops back up onto the screen. There’s a beat too long of silence and gaze slants towards him with a questioning noise. “Lawrence?”

At the other end of the couch Lawrence stretches his arms over his head; a head splitting yawn cracks his features. He places the controller gingerly on the coffee table, looking at Victor with an unreadable intensity that makes him want to look away. “Do you ---- do you ever feel different?” Lawrence asks quietly, not quite filling the space where Fornite’s gunshots and music had been. At that, Victor looks away so the truth can’t be read in his eyes.

Silence answers him.

Lawrence shifts and tucks his toes under Victor’s thigh, and he lets him. Victor thinks he might understand in these quiet moments like this —snatches of time to just breathe and let it all sink in with someone who understands. His own hands fidget aimlessly with the buttons on his own controller, resisting the urge to do something stupid and impulsive like wrap his hand around Lawrence’s ankle and say something like, _Only when I’m around you._

“What do you mean?” he says instead. He knows what he wants it to mean —warmth soaking into his stomach, heart trembling against his ribs, arms wrapped around him and feeling something like home. But maybe they’ll always just skirt the subject.

Lawrence shifts again at the end of the couch, sliding forward along the cushions until he’s resting his arms on bent knees. “I don’t know. Just ----- just different.”

Victor turns his head to find Lawrence closer than he expected, head resting on arms, clear blue gaze fixed on him with an intensity that makes him feel like he’s the only thing that matters. He blinks, swallows hard. “Different does not mean bad,” he says, nudging one of Lawrence’s knees with his elbow —playful, questioning.

“No,” there’s a glint of that smile there, “I guess not.” A hint of something else: disappointment?

“We would not be teammates if things did not change.”

“Tragic.”

“—tragic,” he echoes, the word quiet, falling heavier than he means it too. 

He can feel the beginnings of a gentle smile on his face, something soft like the sky blue in the eyes fixed on him. Lawrence takes a short breath in, and Victor feels the air grow still between them, crackling with something he wants to chase. And for a moment, lips slightly parted, lost in blue eyes, he feels like he might.

Lawrence blinks. “One more,” he says suddenly, pulling back to lean over and grab his controller from the coffee table. “Going to kick your ass.”

Victor can’t help but laugh and follow suit.

—

He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to the feeling of losing.

And that’s a good thing, in the end really. They’re breeding a team of champions here, in Rochester, in Buffalo, hoping some how they can lift this curse always hovering just overhead.

But on particularly bad days there’s this flash when the final buzzer sounds and the score is not in their favor and for a moment he’s back on Leksand ice reliving the worst loss he’s ever faced: the wrong end of a comeback with two goals to his name but not enough in the end, always thinking what if he had just gotten one more goal.

_Just one more goal._

—Just like now.

He doesn’t remember getting off the ice to his stall, just sits with his face buried in a spare shirt in his hands, perceiving everything too much and nothing all at once.

“Hey.” Victor doesn’t move. Someone brushes softly against his knees, light enough to be mistaken for an accident. “Vic—“ It’s an equally soft voice.

There’s only two people outside of family that call him that — only one in this locker room that he lets. He lowers his hands, eyes blinking open to meet Lawrence’s.

HV71 never got relegated to HockeyAllsvenskan, has never even played in Kvalserien in years and certainly not on Lawrence’s watch. No, while Victor was playing to forget he let a storied franchise slip out of the elite league, Lawrence was busy winning the Le Mat Trophy. 

But he’s still the one who might understand the most. 

He doesn’t know when that happened.

Lawrence kneels in front of his stall. “Lots of hockey left; pick yourself up.” Lawrence’s thumb brushes briefly against the side of his knee where the sock is starting to slip down Victor’s leg. He somehow convinces his body not to shiver.

Blue eyes meet blue. He nods.

He gets called to do media not so long after that. It’s nothing new —after all, he’d been one of two players who’d spoken to media after that heavy loss brought Modo crashing down— but he’s grateful for Lawrence pulling him together all the same; it does no good to dwell on the past, and it’s always easier with someone else there.

He’s not planning on going out after that, but Lawrence convinces him without too much effort in the end —a few choice words, a pointed look and Victor is efficiently convinced. He regrets it not ten minutes into dinner, when his heart rate hasn’t slowed down to anything close to resting despite being seated the entire time.

He robotically sips at his drink, one hand balled into a fist in his lap.

Asplund keeps sending him concerned looks over his glass and Victor carefully avoids his gaze, considering the walk back to the apartments alone, his ordered dinner be damned.

He almost is about to leave when— “Hey,” says Lawrence next to him, his hand closing over his clenched fist, gently prying fingers open. His thumb brushes briefly over the red marks left by his nails in his palm before he slips his hand into his grip. “You’re not there anymore.”

No, he isn’t. So much time, so many players and friends and wins have passed through Victor’s hands since then. Fingers close around Lawrence’s.

Lawrence keeps his hand wrapped around Victor’s under the table. The small touch grounds him in the middle of this all —a reminder that in the end, they are still a team. They’re building something special here, in Rochester, in Buffalo.

_Between them?_

Alex ducks under the table to retrieve his dropped knife before either of them realizes it. When he comes back up, he avoids eye-contact with them for the rest of dinner.

—

There are times when Victor thinks he and Lawrence have something special. Maybe not that kind of magic they talk about with linemates or defensive pairs. They’re not magic together —Victor’s never had the privilege of seeing that so-called magic in person and maybe the truth is that on-ice chemistry like any good relationship takes work and time— but it still feels like something when he’s on the ice with him.

It’s in the look before the puck drops on the powerplay; it’s in the bump of shoulders on the bench; it’s in the passes Lawrence dishes so easily.

It’s—

“Hell yeah, baby— ” Lawrence crashes into his chest at the peak of a half-jump celly, laughing all the way, his hand closing on the back of Victor’s jersey, eyes glinting behind his visor as he bumps their helmets together. It’s this close when Victor realizes he loves Lawrence’s eyes not for their color, but for the life that glints so easily through them.

In all this Victor feels something in his chest: like winning, like warmth, like wanting, like a warning.

Their first love for all of them is the ice — or at least it should be. But Lawrence laughs and snows him at practice, talks down the edge after the hard losses with fingers in his hair, and shoves his cold fingers down his neck and he can’t help but think—

_What if?_

—

It’s hard when he’s taken out of the game at Keybank Center; harder to watch the next game from the press box, even harder to watch them get their asses handed to them at Springfield and not being able to do a damn thing to help them.

It’s a quiet walk to the bus, the reflective and solemn kind that he knows can only last as long as the bus ride does before they’ll be called upon to pick themselves up and move on. But for now, the mood hangs heavy and he lets it.

Lawrence sits silent next to him on the bus, staring into space out the window until he finally dozes off. At some point his blanket comes precariously close to finding a new home on the ground and Victor reaches over to tug it back up. 

His hand brushes against one of Lawrence’s on accident, causing him to stir. “Sorry,” breathes Victor, as Lawrence’s eyes blink open.

A beat of silence passes, just bus tires on a highway asphalt and Ports snoring away somewhere near the back, and then Lawrence shifts again, head settling on his shoulder, the chemical scent of locker room shampoo and cheap soap filling his nostrils. “Okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah. ‘course.”

Lawrence lets out a sigh and reaches out in the dark with a hand for Victor’s, carefully winding their fingers together. “Please just—“

Lawrence doesn’t finish his sentence; words caught behind some block, but Victor understands him anyway --the best teammates don’t need words. Fingers tighten in response, and the tension in Lawrence’s shoulders dissipates a little more.

He clings to him even as he falls asleep again.

—

CJ is out somewhere with Brendan, and Lawrence lets Victor into their room moments after he knocks. Lawrence’s Macbook sits open on one of the beds, and when Victor squints at it he sees the familiar green and yellow of HV71 — Lawrence’s lifelong team back in Sweden. 

Lawrence Pilut: loyal to a fault.

He wonders briefly had HV71 been like Modo —if it’d been HV71 relegated and Modo the SHL champions— if Lawrence would’ve made the same choices he had, but those kind of thoughts tend to rabbit hole into places better left untouched. He merely chirps him for watching like he doesn’t keep tabs on Frölunda and his hometown team, and sprawls out over half the bedspread next to him to scroll through Instagram.

It’s an easy sort of atmosphere, quiet save for Lawrence’s mutterings at his screen.

He must fall asleep at some point, because next thing he knows he’s jolted awake by Lawrence’s noise of frustration and vaguely aware of fingers twisting at the end of his hair. Blurrily he blinks his eyes open and squints past Lawrence’s hip at the screen —sure enough, HV71 loses, 3-1. 

“You would’ve prevented that,” he says, only half joking as the replay flashes. The fingers in his hair stop abruptly.

“You wouldn’t have been taking your time in the o-zone leaving me out to dry,” Lawrence counters.

“Maybe I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, and busies himself with finding a more comfortable position that’s a little more forgiving on his neck while Lawrence closes the tab with the offending loss.

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes,” murmurs Lawrence after a stretch of silence, “But nostalgia is always kind to memory. Better to just take things as they are right now.”

Victor makes a small noise of agreement, shifting to retrieve his phone out from under him. He’s still tucked into Lawrence’s side and after a few minutes, the fingers return to his hair.

...

Lawrence’s hands are ice cold when Victor accidentally brushes against them when he hands him his phone. “Fuck,” He grabs one of Lawrence’s hands without really thinking. “Your hands are freezing.”

“Yeah?” questions Lawrence, an edge in his voice that makes Victor realize a second too late that he shouldn’t have said that. Sure enough, not a second later Lawrence pounces.

They tire quickly enough, Lawrence on top of him with one wrist right between Victor’s fingers. There’s a twist of a smirk on his face that tells him that he still shouldn’t trust him, so he doesn’t let go.

Victor doesn’t move, chest still heaving slightly from the exertion. Lawrence looks back like he’s a question, difficult to puzzle out. He has a hand planted on the carpet next to Victor’s head, seemingly impossibly close, lips parted and those blue eyes sparking with that bit of something he can’t quite seem to read.

The moment changes, cold hands forgotten, just toeing _something_ that he’s been aware of but ignoring anyway.

It’s the moment when he’s carefully calculating his shot, picking the spot, and praying he won’t miss. Only this time the stakes feel—

Somewhere far down the hall a door slams with sharp finality. Lawrence flinches, tugs his hand out of Victor’s slackened grip and rolls off him. When Victor sits up, Lawrence is sitting with his back to the couch, his hands buried deep in the sleeves of his hoodie.

Victor can’t read his face and tries not to read too much into its blankness.

\---

He rarely drinks that much during the season and never enough to go over that edge. Losing control isn’t something he’s all that fond of; he rather keep a strong handle on all his faculties, thank you. But one thing leads to another and that tight grip he has loosens just enough. 

He’s just drunk enough to feel warm and syrupy, his surroundings a hazy mix of high perception and fuzziness: laughter, music that vibrates through the soles of his shoes, a hand in his then not, cold condensation against his skin and—

—and in the middle of it all is Lawrence: bright, vibrant, laughing. He’s staring and this time struck more readily this time by the thought that he doesn’t know what he’d do without him here.

Apslund shoves them both out the door close to 1 am despite being younger than them both —he’s not twenty-one yet; can’t drink in this country at least— looping one of their apartment keys around Victor’s neck like he’s going to lose it. “Let me in later or I break down the door,” he yells at them before disappearing back into the crowd.

It’s significantly quieter outside, the air turning cold and fresh and smelling like rain. He has his arm looped around Lawrence’s shoulders, more because he wants to than because he needs to; he’s not that drunk. It’s the grip on his thoughts that is going much faster than his body.

The Uber gets them back to the apartments much faster than he expects, gaze wavering from the raindrops on the windows and a tendril of hair that keeps falling into Lawrence’s face.

“C’mon, Olie,” Lawrence urges, gripping at his forearm and then —after a glance at the driver too preoccupied with hunting down his next fare— tugging at his hand.

He manages to kick off his own shoes at the door, half-tripping over one as he stumbles down the dark hall after Lawrence, their hands still linked. They come to a halt outside Victor’s bedroom, the door still half open as he left it. The grip on Victor’s hand loosens. “I’ll see you tomorr—” Lawrence begins, and suddenly Victor is hyper aware of the dark, the chill in the air, the warmth at his side and Lawrence’s cologne.

“Stay here,” he blurts, his own fingers tightening around Lawrence’s to tug him back towards him. The silence is deafening, the sound of footsteps overhead, someone leaving. “Please.”

“You’re drunk, Vicke.”

He lists into Lawrence’s side, buries his nose in his neck and breathes. “Stay.”

“ _Vicke_.”

“ _Please_ , just —stay.”

“I —okay,” whispers Lawrence, and maybe if he was sober he’d question the hitch in his voice. But he’s not and he doesn’t. “— okay. I’ll stay.”

—

Two days later, Lawrence gets the call and leaves Rochester behind. 

—

Rochester is spread at their feet, wind just turning cold with winter blowing in their faces. They’re not really supposed to be up here, not that it matters all that much. A few snow flurries tumble in the air, cold smelling almost like home, Lawrence humming quietly beside him in an almost definite figment of where they’re both from.

“It’s becoming real,” whispers Lawrence, words almost snatched by the wind. He doesn’t see much of this Lawrence, the subdued, the unsure and apprehensive beneath all the smiles and endless energy — but he thinks perhaps he sees more of it than most, and for that he’s grateful. He says nothing, just nods in quiet agreement; in solid understanding.

The NHL, that’s where they both want to be —where they all want to be— and he knew this was coming, but perhaps not so soon.

“Good luck,” he says finally, low and solemn. Hands remain buried in his own pockets, partly to protect them from the wind and partly to keep him from doing anything stupid. There are a lot of places Lawrence belongs: the NHL is one of them, in Victor’s arms is not.

Lawrence nods almost absentmindedly, face uncharacteristically blank as he stares off toward the lake, overcast skies mixing with the water along the horizon.

“Don’t forget us down here,” Victor prompts.

That does crack a smile on Lawrence’s face, a huff of a laugh and a roll of blue eyes. “You’re too ugly,” he chirps, “—I couldn’t forget you.” The last bit sounds almost sincere next to the chirp, the wrong inflection on the words ( but maybe that’s just lost pitches the wind ).

He can’t think of anything witty in response, just an honest smile that says too much. “Good.”

The wind blows between them, filling the silence, muffling the flow of his own thoughts. Lawrence’s phone buzzes in his pocket, pale fingers retrieving the device telling him the Uber is only two minutes away. Victor swallows, suddenly overwhelmed with the sense that he’s losing something, moments slipping too quickly through his hands.

_I’m going to miss you._

“I have to go,” says Lawrence, eyes just fleetingly meeting Victor’s as he turns and leaves his place at the edge —something unreadable lurking in blue depths. Victor lets out a trembling exhale, lets go of the moments and trails after him.

At street level the wind is barely just a breath, cars filling part of the slack in noise, his thoughts picking up the rest. Lawrence’s fingers in his hand are cold when he reaches for them, “I would say come back safe and sound but—“

The Uber waits patiently, and Lawrence tugs him forward by their joined hands, reaches to wrap him in a hug. His words are warm against his skin as he murmurs them into his ear.

“Meet me there.”

—

It turns out Lawrence’s call up is a short one that doesn’t even have him touch the ice for a minute of an NHL game. That’s for the best, probably, as the Amerks hurtle toward their worst loss of the season. Taylor doesn’t hold back from giving them all a tongue lashing in the locker room after, and the silence when he finishes is deafening.

Brendan sits in his stall and looks everywhere except at anyone in the eye.

They load onto the bus in uncharacteristically quiet fashion, Victor taking a seat near the middle and shutting his eyes, eager to fall asleep as tires eat up the miles between them and their next destination. Someone settles into the seat next to him and he doesn’t open his eyes, unconcerned until they brush up against the back of his hand.

Eyes open to see Lawrence, looking back at him in a silent question.

He inhales sharply.

“Hey—“

“Hey.”

Two and a half months makes understandings grow faster, and Lawrence stays quiet, hand wrapped around Victor’s.

The bus jolts into its parking spot at the hotel and he wakes up to find he’s tucked himself into Lawrence’s shoulder. And looking at this, catching the faint traces of the shampoo Lawrence uses — he’s glad Lawrence is back.

It’s a selfish thought.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he blurts anyway, and promptly regrets as Lawrence turns with something like a mystified expression.

“Yeah,” Lawrence says softly, “me too.”

—

Lawrence gets another call not too long after that —both too soon and not soon enough.

( And this is the reality of dreams: the people you meet and the people you lose along the way ).

Victor puts on his headphones and pretends not to notice the empty seat beside him, jolting awake every time he lists toward the aisle and doesn’t land on a shoulder.

—

“Be careful,” says Alex, looking haunted like he knows something or seen too much. Or maybe he’s just tired. “It’s not easy.”

He doesn’t know what he means: this half something between him and Lawrence or the non-linear path to the NHL that doesn’t ever seem to work for the younger Nylander brother.

Sometimes Victor looks at Alex and all he can see is William Nylander boarding a flight to Toronto halfway through the season, a failing team in his wake. Then again, who is he to question loyalty.

Sometimes Victor looks at him and wonders who had it easier, the 8th overall or the 181st overall. At least he never had the pressure to jump right in too young, too soon at the demands of a floundering organization.

He should be kinder.

Victor rolls his eyes.

—

They go out for Asplund’s birthday, the hype of it being his 21st far more interesting to the American born players on the team than to the rest of them, but a birthday is a birthday and there’s no argument when they want to go out.

The team disperses after a round of shots, some finding the dance floor, others wandering in the direction of the bar, dim lighting cloaking them all. Victor buys Asplund and himself a beer, then two, then three, the night fading in and out of clarity and blurred moments.

Will Borgen throws an arm over Asplund’s shoulders and warbles out a slightly slurred and mostly properly pronounced (if albeit off-key) version of Happy Birthday in Swedish. It brings Asplund to tears as he falls into a fit of laughter, Will looking smug as he downs the rest of his drink.

The night hurdles on: Asplund’s bad dancing that needs a warning sign, a pink feathery tiara with the numbers 21 written in fake gems perched on his head, and Brendan sneaking Alex drinks from the bar.

Asplund stumbles back to the table, breathless as he collapses into the seat next to him.

“No need to look so forlorn —it’s a party.”

And, he’s not being forlorn, just because he isn’t dancing doesn’t mean that. He’s having a perfectly great time sitting at this table with plenty of drinks. The only thing that might be missing is Lawrence in the middle of it all, laughing loud and clear over the rest of the noise. But he’s definitely not thinking about that.

“ ‘m not being forlorn.”

“Could’ve fooled me. C’mon.”

Victor rolls his eyes, takes another sip of beer number… number… well it doesn’t really matter. “I’m fine—” He pauses and then because it’s on his mind blurts out, “ Did you see Lawrence’s first game last night? It was incredible, his shot and how he skates ; you should’ve seen how he deked that one defenseman. He’s just so good at hockey. And— ”

“ _Whoa—_ “ Asplund interrupts, one hand raising as if he can block the flow of words. “It’s _my_ birthday, you’re supposed to be complimenting _me_.” There’s no heat in his voice, though, just an aural equivalent of an eye-roll and thinly veiled amusement.

Victor frowns. “You’re still my favorite Swede.”

“That would be sweet if I didn’t know you were lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You should hear yourself sometimes, Olie,” Asplund says cheerfully, a friendly clap on the shoulder before he wanders off to where CJ is at the bar. Victor is still frowning into his beer.

Not far away, Brendan is laughing, bright and loud like Lawrence does, but it’s not quite the same.

—

A week passes. Then two. Then three, and it’s painfully clear that this call up is going to last a lot longer than the mirage of the first. That’s good. That’s fine. 

Victor’s routine settles around his absence, Asplund more than willing and capable to keep him preoccupied. Hanging with Asplund is comfortable, like his brother’s old sweatshirt he still sleeps in occasionally.

The games drag on. Him and Asplund stay after practice as usual, their group dwindled down to just the two of them —Alex tagging along occasionally.

It’s a familiar silence that they fall into, Asplund feeding him pucks cross-ice and him picking the corners of the net. It’s easy —it’s always been easy to fall into this rhythm, receive and shoot, receive and shoot. They take a break, both of them gliding toward the middle of the circles to discuss new plays to try out. Asplund appears to be working out a thought as he draws closer, but when he speaks, it’s not a suggestion for a new play.

“You miss him,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s also not a question who he refers to. Victor can feel Lawrence’s absence every practice, every dinner, every day —more than he knows he should.

“I think the whole team misses him.” He says finally. Something inside him unfairly closes; Asplund is his best friend here, the one who probably knows the most about him. He deserves more than a media-type answer.

Asplund seems unperturbed, voice soft as he persists. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m not —I’m not going to let it affect my game.”

“That’s not —you know that’s not what I’m getting at either. I’m asking as your _friend_ , Olie.”

Victor doesn’t answer, which probably is answer enough, but it’s clear he’s waiting for a real one because Asplund waits, patiently stickhandling a puck at his feet.

He sighs and closes his eyes, words reluctantly pulled from his throat. “Yes. Okay,” he says finally, a quiet confession to the empty arena and ice. “I do.” 

He loads his emotion into the next slap shot into the net.

Asplund looks distressed but doesn’t push the subject.

—

_What are you doing for Jul?_

_We’re going to NYC._ Victor sends back, and then before he can regret it, _come with us. aspy is bringing his gf. it’ll be lonely._

_Nylander?_

_< middle finger emoji>_

_I’ll come._

There’s something like warmth in his chest as he reads the message; Asplund sending him a knowing look from across the table.

—

“I’m glad you’re back,” Victor says quietly and Lawrence sends him a sidelong glance through curling eyelashes.

“Yeah, me too, Vic.”

It just hadn’t been the same with him gone.

The apartment is quiet when Victor unlocks the door. Asplund’s gone to some restaurant or another with his girlfriend, the rest of the team has dispersed to see family to meet up, and Victor’s glad at least to have Lawrence at his side rather than face one of his first Christmases away from home as a third wheel.

They shouldn’t stay cooped up in the apartment but Victor can’t bring himself to care, especially when Lawrence downs the rest of a countless bottle of beer and tips his head back to laugh, bright and loud; when he chirps him for making poor decisions in Fornite or loses to him yet again in Chel. It’s these moments, steeped with the feeling of home and companionship that Victor wouldn’t trade for anything — not even his first NHL goal.

The night creeps up on both of them. They’ve long switched from video games to Netflix, Lawrence curling up into Victor’s side as the television automatically skips to the next episode. Lawrence presses his nose into the junction of Victor’s shoulder and neck like he can’t possibly get close enough, and Victor pretends this is normal.

He falls asleep that way, Lawrence’s thumb gently running along the soft underside of his jaw.

—

They have to leave for New York City early the next morning. Victor wakes first, Lawrence still asleep on his chest and drooling slightly onto his shirt. His neck is a little stiff from the night on the couch, but he doesn’t shift not wanting to rouse Lawrence.

Asplund bursts in not so long later, a tray of coffees from Spot in his hand a smug sounding laugh ringing ringing in their ears to wake them up the rest of the way.

“Get a room,” he all but crows above them and Victor grins into Lawrence’s hair in response.

“No need to get jealous,” he teases, even as Asplund (placing their coffee on the table first) launches himself on top of Lawrence in some semblance of a bear hug, effectively squishing Victor at the same time.

—

New York City in the wintertime is magical.

It’d be a cliche to describe it as a snow globe, but that’s exactly how it feels: like being trapped inside the glass of a magical moment with snow gently falling around them; like he wants to pack this carefully away to watch over and over and over again.

Asplund takes a photo of him and Lawrence in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree when they’re not aware. To even a stranger’s eye it looks intimate, them just looking at each other in the glow of multicolored lights, oblivious to the world hurtling around them. It’s practically bursting with chirpable material, but either in an act of good faith or some Christmas miracle, Asplund sends it to him without an insinuating comment attached, just a knowing look.

It’s not a snow globe, but it remains his phone background for weeks long after that.

—

The grind after Christmas picks up almost immediately in Cleveland, a defiant win that sets them on a path toward playoffs. It feels more serious, this side of the holiday —there’s an energy in the arena, in practice, in every snap of the puck. The feeling only increases when the calendar flips over. 

The magic of New York City fades more quickly than a dream, disappearing with every aching muscle, every scratch in the back of his throat. Most nights he falls asleep, too exhausted to even dream. The only remnants remain in his phone background and several photos hidden away in Asplund’s phone gallery that won’t come to light for a long, long time.

He’s starting to feel the wear of the season now; they all are —keeping the trainers and doctors plenty busy with their increasing number of ailments that plague them game after game and day after day.

February hits and the communication with Lawrence dwindles to a mere text thread, the most either of them can keep up as the season drags on.

Missing Lawrence, it gets easier.

—

It’s late February, the Amerks locked in a constant battle with Syracuse for first in the division —and all of them locked in a constant war with their bodies to stay fresh and alert. For Asplund at least, it seems the month is treating him well, points and goals finally trickling in when they’d been so elusive previously. He’s thankful that at least for one of them, things seem to be going right. He tries not to dwell on his current scoring slump too much —things have a way of lingering in your body longer than you want when you think of them too much.

Asplund unlocks the door to their apartment, Victor trailing behind him ready to eat something and then maybe take a nap. They’d gotten kicked off the ice by management again because they’d wanted to clean the surface and go home. It’d been a particularly long session and Victor can feel the fatigue setting in, but they’d also ironed out the kinks in a new behind the net play to add to their arsenal, and it settles in like a missing gear.

It’s quiet when they wander in; Alex no doubt playing Fortnite with CJ two apartments down and Justin Bailey in Lehigh three hundred miles away. Everything is as they left it this morning: the dirty coffee mugs in the sink, a carton of eggs they forgot to put back in the fridge in their rush to get out the door on time, and—

—Lawrence passed out on the couch. 

Victor freezes in the hall, Asplund stumbling roughly into him from behind. “The fu—”

Victor reminds himself to breathe. “Did you know he was coming back?” He asks in an urgent whisper.

He turns to see Asplund up on his toes, peering over his shoulder. “No.” He meets his eyes briefly, looks away.

Victor turns back and finally continues on into the room, ring of keys securely in his fist so they don’t clink against each other.

He hasn’t seen him in so long; Snapchat and Facetime may help to cut down distance, but it is a poor representation of reality. Asplund puts their eggs back in the fridge; Victor moves from kitchen to sitting room, looking at Lawrence still fast asleep.

Those months in the NHL have stripped something from Lawrence’s face, making it sharper, more feral. The longer season, the constant wear of hours on hours of bus travel —it’s been wearing on them all. There’s a bruise growing purple on Lawrence’s arm and he’s suddenly hit with a surge of protectiveness, a wave of emotion long locked away not far behind it. 

God, it feels like it’s been so long since Christmas.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Lawrence opens his eyes and smiles.

—

Lawrence still looks tired as Victor looks at him from across the table. Under the table, one of his ankles is just barely touching Victor’s, a small touch that grounds him even now.

“You’ll be going back soon,” Victor says. This is the reality of the road to the NHL —it’s so rarely ever linear.

“But you have to make the most of now,” Lawrence replies lightly, and there’s a faint curl of the smile on his lips, fingers curling against the tabletop. Victor has the urge to take them in his, to kiss—

He wraps his fingers around the warmth of his mug and raises his gaze to meet the warmth of Lawrence’s eyes.

There’s time. There’s always time.

Later that night, Brendan Guhle gets traded to the other side of the country. The locker room loses a bit of laughter and Victor is sharply reminded how nothing is ever certain.

—

“Hey—”

“Not now,” dismisses Lawrence, marching past him and roughly pulling off his tie at the same time.

“Lawrence—“

“Not now!”

“Lawrence—“ His voice rises without him meaning it to. Lawrence stops and Victor swallows hard -- he hardly ever yells. “Hey—“ he continues, much softer. “What is it?” For moment, he thinks Lawrence might just walk out without responding (and he’d let him go; he’s good at that).

But Lawrence just stares at his feet for a long moment, silent like he’s having some inner conflict. “Vic—” When he finally speaks, his voice is small; so quiet and strained he can barely hear it. “Do you ever wonder what we’re doing here?” 

He has. He does.

The normal path is something they’ve all given up to be here. The path to achieve your dreams is hardly nicely paved. But really for him, Rochester is no farther from home than Frolunda had been. Ten hours. By plane. By car.

It’s unlike Lawrence to look outside the present, to glance back and question.

“We’re working toward a dream,” Victor offers, and maybe it sounds too much like a statement stamped out again and again and again until it’s lost its impact. Lawrence flinches.

“Are we? What of what we miss six thousand kilometers away? The birthdays, the celebrations, the—“ Lawrence breaks off as his voice cracks, head jerking to the side as a hand dashes almost angrily at his face.

Victor steps closer and closer, something desperate in his chest, until he can reach out and pull Lawrence’s hand away from his face. “You have pieces of home here —if you look for them.” He means all of them here, a little patch of their home country in the Flower City.

“I know — I just — "

“It’s fine.” Victor murmurs, “I’m always here, you know that.”

“I know — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I don’t.” Lawrence takes a trembling breath in, eyes shining. He’s looking right at him now, stepping forward again until they’re nearly toe to toe. Victor resists the urge to raise a hand and smudge away the sadness there. “I don’t have to look. I’m glad you’re here, Victor.” 

It’s soft, blue eyes blinking up through eyelashes, and in their vulnerability Victor can see what he feels; knows how hard it is to be so far from home when things don’t go well.

“It’s okay.” Victor tugs at Lawrence’s hand and he stumbles the last step into his chest too easily. “You’re okay.” 

Lawrence doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t pull away either.

—

“Seriously?” Victor huffs out an annoyed sigh, sending a non-too-subtle look in Asplund’s direction.

“What? I didn’t do anything?” Aspy responds, looking far too innocent to actually be.

“You know exactly what you did,” Victor retorts, thrusting his phone face up in the other’s direction so he can clearly see the comment left on Lawrence’s picture.

“Hey man, I tell no lies. If I had to sit through that, I am at least going to get some material out of it.”

“I swear I’m going to—“

“Aw, Olie—” Redmond interrupts from across the room with a faux coo, “Do you really think Lawrence is so good at hockey?”

Victor opens and closes his mouth without saying a thing as Asplund laughs in response.

His phone buzzes next to him in his stall. When he looks at it, Linus has chimed very unhelpfully on Lawrence’s post, “Average player.”

Victor buries his face in his hands, the flush in his cheeks hot against his fingers. He really needs new friends.

—

Alex gets the call, and Victor breathes a little easier, even if he should have no reason to.

Then Lawrence goes and it’s easier, Victor supposes, to say goodbye for the third time. A hug, a smile, a throb of the heart. It’s easy to get numb to it all, though numb is probably the wrong word to use. 

Only days after, Borgen follows Lawrence into the NHL and makes his debut. Him and Asplund pop popcorn and fall asleep on the couch watching the game.

Wednesday, the morning after, Victor gets called to Coach Taylor’s office.

—

The ride between Rochester and Buffalo is lonely, but thankfully not that long. Just stretches of highway and trees and spots of poorly paved pavement. He dozes in and out of consciousness, catching snatches of whatever Avicii song is playing whenever a bump drags him toward consciousness. 

He doesn’t dream; he doesn’t have to. After all, he’s steadily heading toward achieving one of his.

Lawrence is in the lobby of the Marriot when he walks in, a grin spreading across his face. He takes Victor’s duffle bag, haphazardly packed with whatever cleanish clothes he’d had, and slings an arm over his shoulders.

—

A noise of excited exclamation is the only warning that he gets when he’s ambushed the moment he walks into the Sabres dressing room. He doesn’t have time to feel intimidated by the brightness of the locker room, the weariness much farther than skin deep on the players’ faces, before there’s six feet three inches of Swede in his arms and he can’t help the smile from crossing his face —it’s comforting to know that even with six thousand kilometers displaced and three different leagues: some things don’t change.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” says Ras, voice a little muffled where he’s tucked it head into Victor’s shoulder. When he pulls back there’s that light in his eyes that Victor’s always felt like needed to be locked up and protected from the horrors of the world.

Victor can’t find anything to say back, but he doesn’t need to. Ras smiles at him again, before his head ducks back down and arms tighten around him.

—

He read somewhere that just laying with your eyes closed helps even if you’re not sleeping. He hopes that’s true because at this rate, between the tossing and turning and the stampede of thoughts in his head, he’s never falling asleep.

It’s almost a relief when there’s a knock on his door and he can give up pretending.

The door swings open and Victor squints with mild surprise at Lawrence silhouetted in the light of the Marriott hallway. “Hi?”

For a long moment, neither of them anything; Lawrence fidgets, Victor stands patiently.

“Um—” says Lawrence, and can’t seem to say anything else. “You know how Roc boys stick together?” He says finally, sounding more like Will Borgen than Lawrence Pilut.

Victor blinks in confusion and doesn’t know how to answer.

Lawrence takes in a deep breath, dispels tension as he runs a hand through his hair, and tries again. “Can I come in?”

It’s not like Lawrence to ask, but Victor steps away from the door in a silent invitation. He closes it behind them and trails in after to find Lawrence just standing in the middle of the room like he wants to pace but is restraining from doing so. Victor waits; he’s good at that —being patient. Gaze follows the movement of Lawrence’s hand through golden hair again. He waits some more.

“I couldn’t sleep the night before,” Lawrence says finally, and it sounds like a very direct sentence, like he’s lining up a huge body check. His hands have stopped fidgeting in front of him, stilling into fists at his sides. Victor doesn’t say anything. “I wished—” gaze flickers away, out the window overlooking cars on the highway and the lake sitting still beyond. Every word comes out slowly despite being in their native tongue. “—I wished you were there.” Lawrence finishes weakly. 

_So I’m here now._

Victor can hear what’s not said as clearly as if it had been voiced. Something gives way in his chest in relief; his own fingers tighten around themselves. His heartbeat calms ever so slightly, like he can finally exhale.

“I can —I can —I can go, if you want—” Lawrence rushes on, sounding panicked. “I mean—” 

“No,” Victor blurts out sharply, cutting Lawrence off. He doesn’t need to hear the rest. “I —I want you to stay.” And he means it. It’s ironic, almost; that this is calming to him, when he’s the one with the steady and calming reputation ( but who’s going to steady him when his world is tilting on its axis? Lawrence. In this, always Lawrence ). “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, reaching forward for Lawrence’s hand and he breathes out.

Lawrence smiles, soft and round, not sharp like the one in the locker room; it’s quieter. “Let’s get some sleep.”

He finally does fall asleep; Lawrence’s heartbeat steady against his back.

—

He sleeps and dreams the night away in fits, startling awake too easy at every noise, soothed back to sleep by Lawrence’s voice murmuring quietly in his ear. The lost hours seem to have little effect on him in the locker room the next morning though. His knee is jumping up and down with nervous energy as he sits in his stall, fingers smoothing over the tape job on his stick over and over and over again.

In the semi-privacy of the bathroom, Lawrence curls his fingers around his to still their twitching; back in the dressing room two stalls down, Will cracks bad jokes that have already been exhausted in Rochester but not here. Alex groans and Lawrence eggs him on from across the side; and all this, is something familiar he can latch onto.

He closes his eyes and the lines dance in front of him: the first line centered by Jack Eichel, anchored by Sam Reinhart. God, it doesn’t seem like all that long ago that he’d been watching them in dev camp, watching them be drafted, watching them grow before his eyes and dreamt about it being him —and now, now it’s here.

Ras fist bumps him in the tunnel, eyes shining and “ _Lycka till,_ Vic” on his lips. _Good luck_. Lawrence quirks a smile at him, Will Borgen standing serenely next to him. 

Victor’s trying not to think too hard, but his mind wanders briefly to an old conversation months ago:

_“We would not be teammates if things did not change.”_

He’s never shied away from change.

The anticipation, the nerves, the excitement: they’re all still there, but now drawn out into an almost familiar feeling he can get a grip on. The faces around him are familiar; it’s these, the pieces of home that he carries with him as he surges forward.

When he skates out, the lights are brighter than he imagined.

—

He can see everything so clearly when he’s on the ice. Everyone talks so much about the differences, the difference between the ice surfaces, the skill, the style of play, but they don’t talk about the similarities ; how sometimes when the puck drops, it’s still just ice and skates and a team and they’re all born understanding that.

And he feels more than sees Jack streaking behind him as he battles for a puck against the boards.

The pass is perfect. He knows that even as he’s turning just in time to see Jack deke the goaltender and send the shot neatly into the back of the net.

The arena erupts at the game tying goal —the comeback nearly complete. Sam crashes into his one side, Jack at his other, Lawrence skates up with gleaming eyes —and for a moment, it’s exactly perfect.

Jack tackles him in another hug on their way back to the bench, the grin on his face infectious.

Perfection hardly lasts long in a game as fickle as hockey, though. It’s a shot he’s made so many times before, upper right corner and in. Only this time there’s the dreaded ping of the post and the puck is ricocheting the wrong way to bounce around the boards. Just like that, the puck is going the other way and the game is over before he can blink.

—

“Congrats, man,” says a voice. Victor looks up to see Jack Eichel, the captain, the face of this franchise and beating heart of the team. There’s a puck in his hand, encircled with sharpie covered white athletic tape, held out to him. He knows what it says without reading it: _1st NHL Point 3.28.19._

“Thanks,” says Victor, taking the puck.

Jack regards him silently, face open with a slight smile on his lips. He has a way of looking at everyone like they’re a friend.

“We’re happy to have you here, our Swedish defensemen have nothing but good things to say about you,” Jack says, eyes glinting with mirth like he’s told some inside joke, before he walks away.

Victor learns later that his assist, his first NHL point had been Jack’s 100th NHL goal ( that when the captain had been asked, Jack hadn’t needed to give a second thought to whose puck it was ).

He’s watched Jack Eichel grow from the outside in like so many others, but he’s also listened to Ras and Lawrence and Linus and others who listen to every word he says; whispers on how Jack turned a city’s bitterness into love; how his path was far from perfect ( but it’s the tough times that make you grow ); how he cares so much every day for each one of them that it hurts.

Even here only for a few moments, he can see it written in every fiber of Jack’s body, stitched through every word he presses into the air. 

Victor may have two years of life on Jack, but Jack has four years of this on him. 

Jack maps out a play on a tablet nabbed from one of the coaches and Victor doesn’t hesitate to lean in and listen, eager to please.

Jack has that effect.

—

It’s not how he imagined scoring his first goal. 

When everyone dreams it’s always a heart-pounding overtime goal, maybe a playoff game, maybe just a random game that ends on the right side of a comeback —but dreams have funny ways of coming to fruition. He blinks at the puck in the back of the net ( vaguely registering Sam Reinhart turning to fish it out from behind Robin Lehner ), before Jeff and Jack crowd around him in congratulations.

In a different universe, the Buffalo arena isn’t built on the ruins of a curse, in his first game he shoots an inch lower, the puck goes in, his first NHL goal gets put in the books as the OT game-winner to complete the comeback…

...but this is not that universe. In this universe, Victor Olofsson’s first goal comes at the end of the third period with the Sabres down 5-0 : a spoil to a shutout its only claim.

He knows he ought to be happier; that this is a dream he’s been striving for his entire life: to score a goal in the NHL, but it doesn’t make the loss taste any less bitter. ( There’s a reason he rarely celebrates his own goals ; he knows all too well you have to be looking forward to the next one even as the last one gets onto the scoresheet ).

“Hey.” It’s Lawrence’s voice, almost soft as he slides into the vacated stall next to him, an echo from all those months ago. There’s a hand on his knee. “You have many more to come.”

He does. He knows. There’s a puck with a circle of white athletic tape next to him that’s only supposed to mark the beginning, not the end. He’s not —he’s not upset about it exactly, just looking forward already, moving on to the next checkmark, the next goal. The past is better left in the past.

“He’s right, y’know.” It’s Jack, materializing from the showers, towel around his neck and hair dripping droplets down his skin. “The people you see here —they’re here for you. For the future. Which is you.”

That sounds a lot like being called a savior and Victor’s never liked being called a savior —he’s seen what it can do to the people that get labeled with it. He’s no savior, no hero, anyway ; he hasn’t believed that since before Modo got relegated. 

That’s what they called Sam, call Jack, call Ras, called Casey Mittelstadt in the brief six game stint he still hasn’t lived up to ; he wonders how they can possibly handle it all. 

At least they don’t have to handle it alone.

“It’s all of us,” he says, his shoulder bumping with Lawrence’s, who leans back into him.

Jack grins, and it looks a little tired on the edges, but for once he appears as young as he is; twenty-two with the weight of trying to be better on his shoulders. “Yeah. It is.”

—

One hundred fifty miles away in Rochester that night, they clinch playoffs.

—

Victor’s thinking, after morning skate, meticulously un-taping his stick as Lawrence stretches on the ground before him. It’s the people in the locker room, Jack, Sam, Casey, Ras… the drafted and bonded.

Lawrence was not drafted. He had no rights tying him to an NHL team like so many do. He could’ve gone anywhere that had wanted him ( and given the rumors, it hadn’t been a sparse list ).

Fate had kept him and Ras together. 

A choice had brought him and Lawrence together.

“Why did you sign here? Why Buffalo?”

Lawrence sits up on the ground. “Why not?” he says. He sounds cautious.

“Some might say there are plenty other better options.”

Lawrence looks around the circle of stalls, gaze shifting up to the history printed in photos above each one, to the sabre forged by them all so many, many long months ago. There’s a thoughtful tone to his voice when he speaks again. “Because of this. Because of Ras, because of the future and what they want to build here. Because I want to make a difference and because of—” Lawrence breaks off suddenly, cheeks faintly pink like he’d almost confessed something. He stares at his feet. “— it doesn’t matter why. I’m here now.”

But Victor has the answer to his question. “Yes,” he says softly. “We both are.”

Maybe it’s irony that Columbus shuts them out the next night too.

—

He’s missed this so much. There’s no magic between him and Ras, no good luck except the luck they make by themselves —but there’s a familiarity that never left them, even with all the months apart.

Victor knows where to go, Ras knows where to find him. When Ras passes to him, he expects Victor to score —and sometimes he does. It’s all an echo Victor’s so glad hasn’t faded. It’s these pieces of home: high fives after every period and “ _Lycka till_ , Vic” before every game.

( There’s this too: an impression of long dark nights in Gothenburg and only having each other. )

But this is a new chapter meeting an old: it’s the colors they wear, the different shades of blue and gold than their country, it’s connecting with Ras on the powerplay and Lawrence crashing into the celly, it’s the tangle of languages in the dressing room and laughing at a failed prank attempt.

They win a thrilling one against the Ottawa Senators on fan appreciation night, or at least as thrilling as a meaningless game at the end of the season can be.

And at least for a moment, they all can pretend they believe it’s going to be all right.

—

The ride from Buffalo to Rochester is less lonely than its counterpart had been.

He falls asleep on Lawrence’s shoulder like he has on so many bus rides before; Alex stares aimlessly out the window.

When he dreams, it’s of him and Lawrence holding the Calder Cup.

—

The team photo is really the beginning of the end, the calm before the storm, a spot of happiness to catch their breath before playoffs begin. They won’t realize that until over a week later ( over a week later when it’s all over too soon ), but that’s how moments go, sometimes —passing by too quickly without you realizing their worth until later.

Lawrence —well, make that most of the team -- is laughing next to him at CJ making faces and cracking jokes in the second row. He grips Victor’s shoulder as he doubles over, giggling long after the moment has passed. His own ribs hurt from joining in, fondness for the guys around him bubbling up inside.

It’s difficult, right then, right there to want anything more.

—

It’s just three games: three games to win and onward you go. They dominated the Marlies in the regular season, won that season series almost easily —but regular season is never playoffs. Some of them know that better than anyone, the ones who were here for the embarrassing sweep just the season prior. But this team is better, they say, stronger than last year’s.

Victor curls up with Lawrence for pre-game naps and is inclined to believe.

_Know how great you are and walk in your greatness._

Simple.

They do not walk in their greatness.

—

Some say you make your own luck, and Victor hits post after post after post in the first round of the playoffs. He wonders what that says about him, about the team.

The season ends with a whimper, unsatisfying, a failure.

The locker room is a wash of shocked silence after the third game, echoes of hopeful interviews from preseason echoing in their minds. _Anything but a deep playoff run will be considered a failure._ Maybe the worst part is knowing that they played well, just not well enough, just not enough _luck_. 

If only he had gotten a goal, managed to bury all those chances he’d gotten.

He drops his head into his hands and stares unfocused at the floor between his feet.

Lawrence idly rubs at his shoulder, wincing when he thinks no one is looking.

—

The bus ride home is quiet and exhausting.

Lawrence doesn’t let go of his hand when they get back in Rochester and Victor follows silently off the plane and into his car. When they get back to the apartment, Lawrence turns and wraps him in a gentle hug. “Stay,” Lawrence mumbles into his shoulder.

Victor smiles. He wouldn’t dream of leaving.

—

When he wakes up Lawrence is gone, the space he’d been still warm next to him. Victor stares up at the smoke detector on the ceiling, the red light blinking with hypnotic slowness.

He finds him in the bathroom later when he finally drags himself out of bed. Lawrence has a razor in his hand, gaze shifting from it to Victor’s face when he steps into the brightly lit room. “I want you to do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Summer is going to be hot,” Lawrence jokes, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s tradition,” he adds. “After every disappointing ending.”

He takes the razor. It’s heavy in his hand as he bounces it a few times as if testing its heft. “Are you sure you don’t want a hairdresser to do this?”

“I want you to do it.”

Victor can feel it all; the weight of every interview, every goal not scored, every game not won. “Okay,” he says.

Lawrence keeps his eyes closed as Victor shaves off golden hair short to his skull.

“That’s better,” whispers Lawrence when he’s done, eyes blinking and meeting Victor’s in the mirror.

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” says Victor. Lawrence smiles, quick and sharp and familiar. “Maybe I should too,” he adds as Lawrence stands, flipping a hat onto his head. “Change could be good for all of us.”

Lawrence turns, reaches out, fingers combing through tendrils by Victor’s ear, getting stuck briefly in the twisted snarls ( gently undoing them ) and then playing with the ends. Victor’s lost in Lawrence’s eyes again, that complex blue like the sky reflected into the ocean ( and sometimes when he looks, he feels like he’s drowning ). “Don’t,” says Lawrence voice barely over a hush, “I like it longer.”

—

It’s the end of the season for now; they’ll go their separate ways — Lawrence to Jönköping and he to Örnsköldsvik, in the same country perhaps, but farther apart than they’ve ever been this entire season: nine hundred kilometers and nine hours. Now, having passed through security and tag team chugged a bottle of gatorade both of them forgot you can’t bring, Victor’s struck by how much he’s going to miss this.

“Lawrence, I—” Victor swallows and resists the urge to look away. Around them the airport traffic bustles around them oblivious. Lawrence blinks solemnly back at him. Victor casts around for the right words to say.

( Goodbye for the fourth time; you’d think it get easier ). 

He settles on a fragment of an old conversation, lips quirking into a lopsided smile. “Do you ever feel different?”

“Sometimes.” At his side Lawrence’s fingers twitch and tap against his leg and Victor has the urge to still them in his own. He doesn’t. He can’t. “There’s a lot of things changing,” Lawrence says quietly. “I don’t think either of us were going to get through the season without feeling different, but it’s—“ He trails off, blue eyes holding Victor’s gaze with a significant look.

_Especially when I’m with you._

Lawrence’s gaze slips for the briefest second toward Victor’s lips.

They’re close now, too close. It’d be so easily just to slip, to grab the collar of Lawrence’s coat — everything else be damned. But it’s a moment like so many others, carefully strung out between them and too fragile to breach.

Neither of them ever do.

And right here, right now, neither of them can.

“I’ll see you at dev camp,” Victor says finally, and it comes out too hoarse, too quiet for the words themselves.

“Yeah—” says Lawrence, closing the gap between them to draw him into a hug. Victor grips him a little too tight. “See you, Vicke.”

—

An hour later, his plane rumbles off North American ground, slowly climbing skyward toward home and the long summer.

Victor shuts his eyes and dreams of gold and blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Well this fic has truly been my baby --- it took me nine months and a whole lot of ups and downs to create and here we are. I am so incredibly relieved ( and proud of myself! ) that it is finally done. As it stands now, it is the longest thing I’ve ever written...
> 
> I have to give a huge thank you to you for taking a chance on a rarepair making it through to the very end --- I sincerely hope you enjoyed it; I had so much fun exploring the beginning of this relationship and finding voices for new muses. And I can finally check pioneering a ship tag off my bucket list.
> 
> This honestly just barely scratches the surface of what these two can bring and I am so excited to explore it further. A lot of this is based in vague fact, I won’t point out everything but if you're curious I do recommend you watch this video [here](https://amerkshockey.tumblr.com/post/183579669112/victor-olofsson-lawrence-pilut-amerks-new) ( those first two segments… that’s what made me ship this and I never looked back ).
> 
> As always, please leave a comment if you enjoyed or have something to say and you can always come chat with me over [here](https://eichhart.tumblr.com/) \--- and I encourage you to do so! I do not respond directly to comments here on Ao3, but know that I do see, read, and massively appreciate every bit of feedback anyone gives me.
> 
> Thanks again, lads!


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